I know that Limehouse Dick is a rascal. I know he’s an incorrigible corner-boy and dodger. I realise old Scrotum can’t stand him, and yet, for all his uncouth manners, his shuffling, mumbling shiftiness and his surly manner, he has always responded well to a sound thrashing and a small bag of sovereigns.

This time is no exception.

Once more, at the appointed time, Limehouse Dick has presented himself at my study door with a brace of the finest tickets for the forthcoming encounter between our fellows and those British chaps from Dublin. One for me and one for my young lad, who has accompanied me on these journeys since he was but a babe in swaddling.

Bless him, Limehouse Dick. I almost feel affection for the scruffy old devil. It was a most unfortunate business when he fell from the ivy outside my window. I do hope that limp clears up eventually.

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Oh, by the way, I should perhaps mention that Munster have won the Magners League. A minor matter, I know, but still.

Being the best rugby player in Connacht must be a bit like being the best ice hockey player in Jamaica I reckon.

In one sense people are proud of you, you being the best an all. But at a deeper more subliminal level they can’t quite grasp what exactly it is you do, and you propelling yourself forward with that strange shaped ball.

Leinster are staying very quite – we don’t like this. Usually they can be relied upton to talk complete and utter bollocks in the lead up to the match, to write cheques their bodies can’t cash as someone once put it. Basically, we are relying on Leinster to be as lethargic as Berbatov on the field of battle. Berbatov, as James Lawton wrote in the line of the year last week, ” a man, who if he brings any less concentrated effort to his task, will slip into a coma.” Do a Berbatov Leinster, because if you get to the final you’ll lose the fucker as sure as our beloved Pope sits on the throne St Peter.

Darkness has descended across the realm as Camelot falls and our knights cede to the dark forces of Mordred at Camlann. T’is not unlike when, the Sicilian hit-man, Salvatore Schillaci – translated, meaning the bastard, for once evading the attentions of the impeccable Black Pearl of Inchicore, netted in the Eternal City, after Bonner, the idiot, failed to deal with a drive – of not significant velocity – and parrying the orb into the deformed pygmy’s path watched as Toto plunged the dagger into the heart of a nation. Our knights, having earned their seats at the round table did assume that being of the people and for the people sufficed. But they grew complacent, and Mordred, exclaiming “absolutely” before each sentence, whilst being of questionable lineage, plotted, and plagiarizing our ways, triumphed to plunge Hibernia into darkness.

Fair play! I just hope we play like that in the final. It’s great too see a performance like that put to bed all those lazy cliches like D4 ladyboys etc. Munster weren’t allowed to play. POC was gracious in victory, but accurate all the same.

Fair play to the real Munster support though.
One good thing about yesterday was that it’ll shut the Lunsters up for a while. Shower of johnyy come lately bandwagon jumpers that they are. Maybe Reggie Corrigan has it right, there should be a special shirt for them, half red and half blue so that when the tv cameras are on them they can turn either way to shout for whoevers winning.